Eclipsed.
Once again, I found myself waiting in the shelter of Fitzroy’s grand tent as he entertained his military advisers and the lingering esquire. Only one sunrise had passed since I’d unearthed the witches, yet I was desperate to report I’d fulfilled his request.
I waited in the shadowed corner, clutching a piece of plated armor, claiming I needed to size it to Fitzroy’s chest as an excuse to visit. Embarrassingly, I sought his approval; I wanted him to know that I was as capable as any man.
“W-w-when I was a boy,” Bart stammered, as usual. “We were born knowi—”
“Knowing how to fight,” Fitzroy interrupted, his tone laden with impatience. “You’ve shared this unremarkable anecdote before.”
Fitzroy cast a mischievous smirk in my direction as Bart continued to stutter. I peered into my grease pot, suppressing a chuckle that tickled my throat.
Benedict sighed loudly—clearly weary of Bart’s ramblings—while the old man struggled to start a sentence and remember his point by the time he reached the end of it.
“Thanks to the perseverance of the King,” Benedict interrupted, cutting Bart off, “the lords in his Order have sent more soldiers to Cambas. They arrive today.”
Fitzroy scoffed.
“Respect your ruler,” Bart snapped, feebly slamming his wrinkled fist into the table. “Remember, your role in this realm is to be a steadfast servant to your King.”
I lifted my gaze and found Fitzroy watching me. He rolled his eyes as Bart mumbled on, and this time I couldn’t hold back the laughter—it tittered out onto the plate of armor I was polishing.
“What are you snickering at, peasant?” the esquire asked.
My chuckle dried up as heat flushed my face.
The feather atop the esquire’s hat bobbed as he marched toward me. “Answer me when I address you, serf,” he snarled, his putrid breath stinging my eyes.
Fitzroy rose to his feet, letting his chair topple backward and clatter against the wooden planks. He sauntered over—calm yet menacing—to where I was being humiliated.
“Who are you talking to?” Fitzroy demanded in a low, threatening tone.
“Only a villager,” the esquire replied dismissively.
Fitzroy’s smoldering gaze narrowed. “That villager is the best blacksmith in Cambas—the reason I’m still breathing,” he declared as he seized the esquire by the scruff of his neck. “Speak kindly to Smith, or I’ll remove that spiteful tongue from your rotten mouth.”
The esquire bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he squeaked as Fitzroy released him from his jewel-encrusted grasp.
“Why are you apologizing to me?” Fitzroy asked, shaking his head. “Now get on your knees and grovel to Smith.”
Heat warmed my skin, partly because I was grateful that Fitzroy would defend me publicly, and shamefully because I found his dominance intoxicating. I rubbed my hand against the nape of my neck, trying to dissipate the lingering tingles—not allowing myself to find the prince alluring.
The esquire looked utterly mortified, his disbelief plain as he was forced to demean himself. With a humiliated huff, he stooped low and knelt upon the wooden boards.
“Forgive me,” he groveled, struggling to maintain eye contact.
I stared down at him, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Fitzroy had taught me this domineering tactic, and I savored every second of the esquire’s squirming.
“Apology accepted,” I said—even though it wasn’t. I truly hated him.
“Get up,” Fitzroy spat, nudging the red-faced esquire with his knee. “That shameful display concludes our meeting today. As always, thank you for your wisdom.”
Fitzroy couldn’t resist snorting at his own sarcasm.
After the men departed, I bowed my head to Fitzroy.
“Thank you, my liege,” I said, with utter sincerity.
He flashed me a charming smile—the flecks of gold in his brown irises glistened a little brighter than usual.
“Don’t mention it,” Fitzroy replied. “I’ve spent all morning listening to hopeless war tactics. I pray you’re the bearer of some good news.”
I nodded, eager to gloat and desperate to impress him.
“I have your army—and I’ve organized a private meeting place for us.”
“You’ve exceeded my expectations,” Fitzroy said with a firm pat on my shoulder. “Who and where?”
“I’ve recruited four magical members.”
“Good start. Who are the wizards?”
“Sebastian,” I replied. “The carpenter.”
“One of the Headlands thieves?” Fitzroy asked, his eyebrows arching in disbelief.
I nodded—instantly deflated by his demeanor.
Fitzroy sighed, clearly unimpressed. “Who else?”
“Um,” I hesitated, now dreading his reaction to finding out about the witches. “I’m not certain you would know the others by name.”
“Let me guess—you’ve failed in your pursuit of finding me wizards?” Fitzroy asked. “I should have known,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disappointment.
For the second time today, Fitzroy heated me—but this time, there was no confusion, only pure animosity at his manner.
“I’ve found something better than wizards,” I snapped, my patience waning.
Fitzroy scoffed. “And what could that possibly be?”
“Witches.”
His expression shifted to intrigue. “Go on,” he said, rolling his hand impatiently.
“The women working at the Anchor are witches,” I explained, pausing to gauge his reaction.
He gave me nothing, staring blankly as he waited for me to continue.
“They’re skilled in spells and incantations,” I added. “Emma, the youngest, claims to hear prophecies.”
“Interesting,” Fitzroy murmured. “And they’re willing to fight?”
I nodded. “They’ve offered us the brothel as a secret meeting point—it’s secluded, warm, and stocked with ale by the keg load.”
Fitzroy hummed as he pondered my pitch—taking his time.
Waiting for his response was like teetering on the edge of a blade, uncertain whether he was delighted or displeased with my recruits, knowing we were moments away from celebration or a blazing argument.
Finally, Fitzroy cleared his throat.
“Good work,” he said, patting me on the back. “You’re quickly becoming my favorite person in Cambas—not that there’s much competition.”
* * *
News that the king’s latest recruits were in a training lesson had spread around the encampment faster than poppy pox.
Red called for an unscheduled break so we could watch.
The men were eager to eye up the soldiers, while I wondered how dull-witted someone had to be to find men clanging metal sticks together entertaining.
I took a seat between Red and Godwin at the peak of a sandbank, overlooking the commotion below.
Beneath an overcast sky, Fitzroy stood surrounded by fewer than a hundred recruits. The lords had been far from generous with their contribution—likely fretting over who would tend to their lands; no man sent to Cambas had yet returned.
I couldn’t clearly hear Fitzroy as he marched along the sands, but the way he arrogantly swung his sword suggested he was gloating about his combat expertise.
With a beckoning gesture, he called one man forward and instructed him to assume a fighting position.
Unlike when I’d faced Fitzroy’s swordplay, this opponent appeared experienced, gripping his own sword with confident ease.
The man struck first, slicing his gleaming blade downward with great speed and force.
Fitzroy blocked it with the hilt of his sword, then sidestepped effortlessly.
The challenger pivoted and lunged, his weapon thrusting toward Fitzroy’s chest, but my liege parried the smite and countered with a swift, precise stab.
Slash after slash came at him, yet Fitzroy dodged and deflected them all, barely breaking a sweat.
Suddenly, the man’s weapon slipped from his clammy hands, dropping to his feet.
Seizing the moment, Fitzroy swooped in and pressed the tip of his blade to the man’s heaving chest.
The onlookers erupted into cheers as Fitzroy lowered his sword and extended a hand to help the defeated fighter to his feet. The applause continued while he flashed his radiant smile, thriving in the presence of an adoring crowd.
Red jabbed his elbow into my ribs. “The bastard must’ve slipped him a few gold coins for an easy victory,” he quipped, though the glint in his eye betrayed his true admiration.
I was in awe of Fitzroy’s skills—his performance deserved every cheer. Still, I kept silent, sparing him more praise when his monstrous ego was already enough to carry.
Godwin snorted. “He’s talented—brings to mind the tales of his grandfather,” he said, his gaze drifting past the sword-wielding recruits.
“The Wizard King? I thought you despised magic?” I asked, utterly confused.
Godwin’s hand reached for his scar. It looked fresher in the daylight—a grisly remnant of a battle not long fought.
“I do now—never did before the Dark Days,” Godwin replied with a roll of his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe he had to explain it.
Red tutted. “This was before sorcery turned evil,” he said, pointing at Godwin’s face, reminding me of the twisted marks magic could leave.
“Long before you were a fleeting spark in your father’s eye,” he continued, giving me a nudge.
I didn’t dignify that with a response and instead admired the view. A blue-tinged mist shrouded the sea, and I could just make out the shipyard on the far side of the sands. Fletcher’s hat stood out like a sinkhole in the fog.
More men abandoned their tools and headed to the beach to inspect the newest recruits. I spotted Bash—my heart fluttering at the sight—pushing his way to the front of the huddle to stand beside his cousin. I waved, but before he could notice, Red elbowed me again.
“That one looks like a manlier version of you, Smith,” Red teased.
I returned his jest with a jovial barge as I scanned the crowd, hoping the man Red thought I resembled wasn’t unsightly.
“Who?” I asked as I struggled to spot anyone I bore a likeness to.
Red pointed to the back of a man’s head—his shoulder-length locks were dark like mine.
“Wait till he turns around,” he said.